


Hozier Missed A Trick When He Called It 'Real People' Instead Of 'Joe Bloggs Snogs'

by indieninja92



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alan Went To The Same Comp As Me, Canon-Typical Classism, Chronic Giggling, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Gentle Teasing of Fandom, Gratuitous References to British Culture, I Can Say These Things, I Love You All, It's Alright I'm Northern, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 19:28:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28693962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indieninja92/pseuds/indieninja92
Summary: Months after Armageddoff, Crowley and Aziraphale enjoy a cosy night in. A brief moment of anxiety about a completely invented turn of events sends them off on a rambly, giggling conversation that asks, if they were human, what kinds of humans would they be? Very silly ones, it's safe to say.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 185
Kudos: 386
Collections: Best Aziraphale and Crowley, Break in Case of Emergency: Fluff and Love, Top Aziraphale Recs





	Hozier Missed A Trick When He Called It 'Real People' Instead Of 'Joe Bloggs Snogs'

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mortifyingideal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mortifyingideal/gifts).



> finally, i have succumbed to the extremely weird fandom tradition of writing pornography as a gift for your friends. mortifyingideal, my stalwart companion in the fic mines, always ready to describe the flavour of very normal things i haven't eaten and make references to very normal pieces of media i have not consumed - this one's for you.
> 
> for the rest of you, enjoy! a love letter from me to human aus that expresses affection the only way i know how - through fond mockery.
> 
> finally, my apologies to bhutan. you deserve better. no apologies for leeds - you know what you did.

“-which the American scene never really had, you see? Something to do with the art rock influence, I think, as well as the general cultural differences. So the American development into hardcore makes sense from that perspective, allowing as well for the generally thicker sound they always tended to go for, while in Britain we had that more tongue-in-cheek, almost proto-college rock...” 

Crowley's hands moved through the air as he spoke, illustrating his words with loose, imprecise motions borne of roughly four and half bottles of Hobgoblin. He was sat on the floor beside the coffee table and had been talking for a solid twenty minutes without hesitation, repetition or deviation. He would likely have gone on indefinitely, had he not at that moment reached across the table to help himself to a piece of naan. 

“Do you want some?” he said, tearing himself off a chunk. 

Aziraphale didn't answer, which should have been Crowley's first clue something was wrong. Under normal circumstances, there wasn't a power in the universe that could make Aziraphale hesitate in the acquisition of bread. But Crowley was occupied scooping up daal makhani, and so didn't realise something was amiss until he looked up, mouth full, to check if Aziraphale had heard the question. 

Aziraphale was staring into the middle distance, a blank look on his face. This was, Crowley could admit, not particularly unusual when Crowley had been rambling for a while. He took no offence – if he wanted Aziraphale to listen properly, he only had to ask, and sometimes he really did just want someone to sit and make vaguely interested noises while he held forth on his chosen subject. 

This, however, was different. Aziraphale was sat up straighter than anyone had any right to sit on a sofa as ludicrously plush as Crowley's.[1]Since Armageddon't, Aziraphale had been practising 'relaxing' with single-minded determination. He'd taken to it like a duck to art forgery, which is to say, he was a natural.[2] With Crowley's expert guidance, he'd become quite the dab hand, and had even been encouraged to slouch on occasion, provided they were alone, in private, and he'd had a glass or three of something boozy. This return to finishing school posture was a concerning development, under the circumstances. 

Concerning, too, was the expression on Aziraphale's face. Usually when he was not-listening to Crowley, he wore a slightly vacant, quietly fond expression that would have made Crowley quite silly if he'd ever had the attention spare to notice it. Tonight, though, his forehead was crinkled in concern, and there was a tension around his mouth that told Crowley he was moments from worrying at his bottom lip. Aziraphale's own bottle of beer sat forgotten in his hands, one thumb running back and forth over the corner of the bottle's label, reducing it to fluff. 

Crowley swallowed, licking his fingers clean. The flat was quiet but for the swinging, tilting rhythm of a Billie Holiday record playing softly in the background. The sudden stop in Crowley's chatter slowly tugged at Aziraphale's attention. He blinked, frowned, came back to himself by degrees. Finally, he looked at Crowley with surprise. 

“Is everything alright?” he asked. 

“You're asking me? You're the one with the thousand yard stare. What's up?” 

Aziraphale pulled a face. “Nothing. I was just being sill- Mmft!” 

Crowley cut him off with the judicious application of a steamed dumpling. “None of that,” he said firmly. “Tell me what it is, first, and then I'll decide if you're being silly.” 

Aziraphale glared at him. Unfortunately, he was still chewing as he did so, making him look less 'avenging angel' and more 'ornery goat'. Finally he swallowed, sighed, and reached for another dumpling, dipping it in sauce as he spoke. 

“It's a bit... loopy,” he confessed. 

“Love loops, me. Bendy as anything. Spit it out. Not the momo,” he added quickly, seeing a look of alarm cross Aziraphale's face. 

“It was the momos that set me off, actually,” Aziraphale said. 

“You're having an existential crisis about dumplings? No, never mind – that sounds just like you. Carry on.” 

Crowley popped one of the offending dumplings into his mouth and hauled himself upwards just enough to slither onto the sofa beside his angel. 

“It wasn't the momos themselves,” Aziraphale explained, letting himself be pulled back against the cushions. “It was that you reheated them, just now. I said they'd gone cold and, quick as a flash, you clicked your fingers and there they were, hot.” 

Crowley, who was wriggling himself comfortable, made a listening noise from somewhere in the direction of Aziraphale's tummy. 

“And it struck me,” Aziraphale went on, holding his hands clear as he waited for Crowley to settle down, “just how lovely it is to have someone to heat your dumplings for you.” 

“I'd heat your dumplings any day.” 

Aziraphale did not dignify this with a response. “I know it was a simple enough gesture, just a small miracle, but it really did make my evening that bit better and I appreciated it enormously. And then I thought- Ooft, watch your elbow!” 

“Sorry. Go on.” 

Snemon situated, Aziraphale let his hands down, one playing idly in Crowley's hair and the other resting gently on his belly. “Where was I? Oh, yes. I thought about miracles, and how often we use them, and how dependent we are on them. And I started to worry – this is the bit where it gets a bit silly. I had the thought of, oh God, what if we lose our powers?” 

“Why would we lose our powers?” 

“I don't know! Perhaps some kind of, of punishment thing? From, you know.” Aziraphale flicked his eyes briefly in the direction of the ceiling. “I didn't say it made sense, I said I was worried about it. Because really, what would we _do_? You'd have to get a job.” 

“Me? Why me?” 

Aziraphale sat up a little. “I already have one,” he said primly. 

At this, Crowley burst out laughing. “Oh, that is a _heinously_ generous interpretation of what you do in that bloody shop!” 

“I'll have you know, I had a return customer the other day.” 

“Oh?” 

Aziraphale pursed his lips. Crowley waited. And waited. 

“That's not the point,” Aziraphale said eventually, setting Crowley off into peals of laughter. “That's not the point! The point is...” 

He trailed off, not quite sure what the point was. He stroked Crowley's hair, at once calmed and distracted by its softness. 

“What would we do if we lost our powers,” said Crowley gently. He nuzzled closer, beery and content. “We'd just get on with it, angel. Nothing to worry about.” 

“But how? They have so many pieces of paper they need these days, birth certificates and bank statements and-” 

Crowley clicked his fingers. Deep in the inner workings of the bureaucratic machinery of local government, a series of ones became zeroes and vice versa. In Mayfair, a manila folder appeared on the coffee table, safely out of the take-away splatter zone. 

“There you go,” he said, a little too smug to be nonchalant. “All your paperwork, signed in triplicate and double stamped. You can keep it in the safe. Next?” 

There was a long, quiet moment. “Crowley...” Aziraphale said gently. “You didn't have to do that – it was just a thought.” 

“And that was just a miracle. It's fine. Now you don't have to worry about it.” 

“And... money?” 

“He asks, as if he hasn't spent the last six thousand years hoarding treasure like a dragon in carpet slippers. The stuff you've got squirrelled away, you could go to one car boot sale a century and live like a king.” 

Aziraphale smiled, but the dregs of his anxiety still lingered. His smile faded. He bit his lip. “What about- What about if we... don't live for centuries, any more?” 

Crowley's hand found Aziraphale's and squeezed. “Then we'll grow old together. And,” he went on, before Aziraphale could get weepy, “if they turn you into a frog, I will get you the finest terrarium money can buy and serve you meal worms on a tiny silver platter.” 

The last of Aziraphale's tension left him in a gust of laughter. “Oh, you're too kind! Could I have a little frog pond as well?” 

“For you, darling, I would dig a pond right here in the living room. Or at least put a paddling pool in the plant room.” 

“Mm, that sounds positively luxurious. Can frogs drink wine, do you think?” 

“We'll find out. I'll get you a teeny weeny wine glass. And a little curly straw, in case you want a cocktail. The tiniest paper umbrella the world has ever seen.” 

“And a normal one, for me to use as a parasol.” 

“Naturally.” 

With that they settled comfortably into a cheerful ramble of a conversation, tromping through topics with all the care and discernment of a toddler in wellies let loose on a muddy path. Nary a puddle was left unsplashed, nor an interesting stick left unpicked-up. By the time they were ready for bed, the empty beer bottles were crowding the floor and the coffee table, Crowley's hair looked like it had been the site of a highly localised hurricane, and Aziraphale had even gone so far as to undo his bowtie. 

Crowley got up first, sliding off the sofa like a ragdoll before eventually unfolding himself to something like upright. He held out his hands and pulled Aziraphale to his feet, then into a kiss. It ought to have been routine by now, kissing like this in the living room, the taste of their shared dinner on their lips. It wasn't. 

Crowley pulled away first, pink-cheeked and stupidly pleased with himself. Experience told him that if they kept at it much longer, they'd never make it to the bed. And he did love having Aziraphale in his bed. He liked having Aziraphale wherever he could get him, truth be told. But whenever they spent the night in his flat, in the inner sanctum of his bedroom, it felt like he was winning a competition he hadn't known he was in. 

He liked his flat, always had. He liked its clean lines and angles, the contrast of stark concrete with verdant plant life, the great, heaping drifts of light that spilled in through his floor-to-ceiling windows. But it was, he knew, not a space that ought to include someone like Aziraphale. The bookshop was different, it was so comfortable that Crowley knew he could settle into it and it would make room for him, softening around his sharp corners and folding itself around him. The flat did not soften. It did not fold. It was brutalist and beautiful, and by rights something as gentle as Aziraphale ought not to have fit in there at all. 

But, he did. He curled up on the sofa, and cuddled in the bed, and made cooing noises at the plants, and settled himself in like there was nowhere he'd rather be. Faintly, Crowley was aware that this was probably more to do with the company he was in rather than the flat itself. But that felt too big a thought to look at face on, so he ignored it and instead drank in the sight of Aziraphale padding about the living room in his socks, dozing off in front of the television, or, best of all, sprawled like a starlet under a spotlight on Crowley's black-sheeted bed. 

He took Aziraphale's hand in his and led the way down the corridor, clicking his fingers to clean up the mess in the living room. 

“Don't worry,” he said over his shoulder, pre-empting Aziraphale's question. “I put the leftovers in the fridge. You'll have your cold curry breakfast,” he added, not bothering to hide his distaste at the thought. 

As they crossed into the bedroom, Aziraphale slipped his arms around Crowley's waist from behind, kissing the side of his neck. “Thank you, my dear,” he said fondly. 

Crowley grunted. “Disgusting creature,” he said, tipping his head to let Aziraphale reach more of his neck. “I suppose it'll make the transition easier, though.” Aziraphale, mouth occupied, hummed his request for Crowley to elaborate. “If we lose all our powers. You won't have to learn how to use the stove – you'll just eat cold, leftover takeaway.” 

Aziraphale made an indignant noise. “I could learn to use a stove,” he said, slightly muffled. “Humans manage it all the time.” 

“You're not a human.” 

“No, I'm smarter than humans.” 

Crowley laughed, turning around to face Aziraphale at last. He wrapped his arms round the angel's neck and raised an eyebrow. “You know more than humans,” he corrected. “Not the same thing.” 

“I'll know you.” It was, as comebacks went, not his finest. Still, it made Crowley smile, so that was alright. 

“Mm,” Crowley purred, moving closer with more wiggle than someone should have been able to fit into a single step. “Do you mean that biblically?” 

“I'm an angel. I mean everything biblically.” 

No doubt Crowley would have had something witty to say to that, but Aziraphale was kissing him before he could think of it and suddenly, it didn't seem to matter any more. He arched his back as Aziraphale ran his hands over him, thrilling at the feeling of being wanted so much, so obviously. 

Then, just as Crowley was getting into things, he was interrupted by a thoroughly unangelic snort. He pulled back to see Aziraphale laughing to himself, even as he tried to pull Crowley back into the kiss. Crowley resisted, the beginnings of his own laughter bubbling in him. 

“What?” he said, baffled. “What is it?” 

Aziraphale shook his head, trying to stifle his giggles. “Doesn't matter. Come here.” 

“No, what is it? Come on, angel, tell me!” 

Aziraphale grinned at him, collar crooked, hair distinctly rumpled. “I just thought,” he said. “If we were human, you'd be my _boyfriend_." 

The thought was apparently too much for him, said out loud. He collapsed into giggles, letting his face fall against Crowley's shoulder for support. 

“You'd be my _boyfriend_ , and I'd say things like, 'No thank you, I'm waiting for my _boyfriend_ to join me,' and, 'My _boyfriend_ and I would like to book a room, please.'” 

“What's so funny about that!” Crowley protested, which only set Aziraphale off laughing harder. 

“I'd- I'd go to parties and-” Aziraphale broke off, catching his breath. His eyes glittered with barely suppressed glee as he looked at Crowley, determined to finish. “I'd go to parties and I'd introduce you and I'd say, 'Hello everyone, my name's Aziraphale and this is my _boyfriend_ , he's a _consultant_ -” 

It was too much. He fell about laughing, barely able to stand. Crowley, as bemused as ever, just held him, patting his shoulder absent-mindedly and wondering what he'd done to deserve this ridiculous, adorable lump of angel. 

Eventually Aziraphale recovered enough to lift his face, beaming at Crowley, all flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. Crowley made a half-hearted attempt to look disapproving as he wiped the tears of laughter from Aziraphale's cheeks with his thumbs. 

“You're very silly,” he said, dropping a kiss to Aziraphale's temple. 

He made his way finally to the bed, sitting with his back against the headboard and kicking his long legs out in front of him. Aziraphale didn't need an invitation. He toed off his shoes and climbed up to straddle Crowley's legs, settling down in his lap like an enormous, happy cat. 

“What kind of consultant?” Crowley asked, despite himself. 

Aziraphale frowned, not looking up from Crowley's shirt buttons. “What do mean, what kind? Do they come in kinds?” 

“Of course they do. Social media, business...” He cast around, finding the bottom of the barrel rather faster than he'd expected. “Detecting,” he offered, limply. 

“I think there was only ever one of those,” Aziraphale said. “I don't know. Does it matter? Whatever you do, I'm sure it involves doing very little work for obscene amounts of money, has no practical value whatsoever and makes a lot of people very unhappy. Lift up.” 

Crowley obliged, giving Aziraphale room to tug his shirt off. “That's very rude,” he said, sounding not at all offended. “Maybe I'm nice as a human. Maybe I work in a charity, building wells for orphans or something.” 

“Ha! Not bloody likely. I'm sorry, my dear, but if you were a human you'd be one of the types who moves some numbers about on a screen and five hundred people in Bhutan lose their homes, somehow making five people in London become astronomically wealthy. Think about it,” he said, seeing Crowley's indignant expression. He ticked the points off on his fingers as he made them. “You'd want something not many people can do, but that you're very good at, but which also doesn't mean you have to work very hard. You'd be able to pay whatever obscene mortgage you'd have on this place, and keep yourself in designer sunglasses and obscene trousers, not to mention keeping the Bentley running. And the only people you'd be hurting would be very far away and not really very interesting to you – oh, don't look like that. I don't mean it as a criticism. But you must admit, you don't have much, shall we say, emotional object permanence.” 

Crowley pouted. “I care about you when I can't see you,” he said. 

Aziraphale kissed him on the nose. “Yes, but you love me very much. The same cannot be said for the Bhutanese farmers.” 

He leant down and started to kiss his way down Crowley's neck, as if the conversation was over. Unfortunately, Crowley had other ideas. 

“You don't know that. I might have a deep and abiding kinship for the people of Bhutan. They've got forests there, right? I like forests. Trees. Bugs. All good things. Are you even listening to me?” 

Aziraphale, who had reached Crowley's collarbone and was working diligently at giving him a rather magnificent love-bite, lifted his head with a wet, sucking sound. He ran a proud finger over the blooming purple fruits of his endeavours. 

“No,” he said. “I'm not. Are you going to undress me or what?” 

“I don't have to put up with this,” Crowley said, scowling. He popped open the buttons of Aziraphale's waistcoat, running his hand appreciatively over the dip and curve of his broad, soft chest. “Maybe this is the end for you and your swish consultant boyfriend. Maybe I'll go and find myself a man who appreciates me.” 

“I'm heartbroken,” said Aziraphale, taking off his waistcoat and dropping it over the side of the bed. “I shall stay up all night writing sad sonnets about you. What rhymes with 'Anthony'?” 

Crowley grimaced, setting to work on Aziraphale's shirt buttons. “Nothing. Why would you call me Anthony?” 

“It's your name, dear,” said Aziraphale, in the tone he used when he thought Crowley was being particularly dense. “Or the name you use when you're pretending to be human, anyway.” 

“I use Crowley when I'm being human too. It's right there – Anthony J. _Crowley_.” 

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, slowly, “but most people don't call their boyfriends by their surnames, do they? Don't forget the cuffs.” 

He held out his wrists for Crowley to work loose in turn. 

“Some people do,” Crowley said. He sent the shirt the same way as the waistcoat and took the opportunity to rearrange his hold on Aziraphale, sitting up to push their bodies close. “Plenty of people go by their last names.” 

The feeling being pressed close, skin to skin, was just as exquisite now as it had been the first time. More so, the sensation only made more wonderful through the burgeoning familiarity. Give him a few more weeks and Crowley was sure he'd be able to draw the moles on Aziraphale's back from memory. A month or two and he'd have the freckles down pat, too. 

Aziraphale pressed into the touch, his fingers in Crowley's hair. “Not to their lovers,” he sighed. 

Crowley kissed him, smiling against his lips. “I thought I was your boyfriend,” he said, “not your lover.” 

“They're not mutually exclusive,” said Aziraphale, between kisses. His smile widened, their kisses turning to soft brushes as he said, “Besides, you _are_ my lover. You love me. You are The One Who Loves Me.” 

The capital letters fell effortlessly into place. Crowley snuggled his face against Aziraphale's neck, breathing in the perfect, masculine smell of his cologne. It was an intoxicating combination of sweet sandalwood, made interesting with overtones of something spicy Crowley thought might have been frankincense. 

“Perhaps I went to public school. They use their surnames.” 

Aziraphale gave a low, rich laugh. “Oh, you absolutely went to public school. Westminster, I'll bet.” 

“Naturally,” said Crowley, in a moment of completely fabricated school pride. “London born and raised – wouldn't catch me out in the boonies.” 

“Harrow is in London,” Aziraphale pointed out. Crowley dismissed the point with a snort. 

“Harrow is in Harrow.” 

In a fluid movement, he took a firm hold of Aziraphale's waist and rolled them both over into the middle of the bed, propping himself with his elbows on either side of Aziraphale's head. Aziraphale's mouth was warm and wet, trailing kisses over Crowley's chest as his hands worked at the buttons of Crowley's fly. 

“Does that mean you have to call me 'Fell'?” he asked, breathless. 

Crowley's nose wrinkled. “Absolutely not.” 

“But if we're going by surnames-” 

“We're not! I am, because I'm an insufferable public school boy who's grown up into an insufferable enemy of the Bhutanese state, apparently. Here, I'll get them,” he added, sitting back on his haunches to wiggle his jeans down over his thighs. “No need for you to go by your surname too.” 

“Oh.” 

Crowley twisted, pulling his legs out from under himself to take his jeans off the rest of the way. A wicked gleam came into his eyes. 

“Perhaps your school’s not as posh as mine,” he said, in a tone Aziraphale had long learnt to watch out for. Jeans finally discarded, he insinuated himself back between Aziraphale's thighs. “Perhaps you're my bit of rough.” 

Aziraphale frankly stared at him. In an accent rarely heard beyond the environs of a royal palace, he repeated coldly, “Your _bit of rough_?” 

The letters tinkled into place like shards of ice, which only made Crowley laugh more. 

“Yep! You're my rough, manly, common labourer boyfriend-” 

“I am not!” 

“No? You work in a shop,” Crowley pointed out. Aziraphale's trousers were a great deal more easy to remove than his own, and he made short work of them as he spoke. “You work with your _hands_.” 

“For pity's sake!” Aziraphale's cheeks were turning a delightful shade of pink. “I deal in rare and antique books. It's hardly manning the check-out at a supermarket.” 

“Oh, you'd look absolutely darling in an Asda uniform.” 

Aziraphale shot him a filthy look, only partly spoiled by the obvious swell of his erection behind his floral Sunspels. “There isn't anyone in the entire world who works in antique books who would be described as 'a bit of rough.'” 

Crowley only grinned. “You went to a comprehensive,” he said, the word dripping with malicious glee. “In _Leeds_.” 

“Crowley! Don't be horrible!” 

At that, Crowley threw back his head and cackled. He pressed laughing kisses to Aziraphale's cheek and neck. “You are such a fucking snob.” 

“You're the one who bagsied going to public school. I'm sure Leeds is perfectly nice for the people who live there,” he added, though a barely supressed shudder undermined any diplomacy he might have been striving for. He ignored Crowley's noise of disbelief and doggedly continued, “But really, quite apart from anything else, I don't think anyone called Aziraphale is going to survive long in a... comprehensive.” 

The word came out like a slur, as if Aziraphale wasn't sure he'd survive the taste of it on his tongue. Crowley gave Aziraphale's stomach a parting kiss and sat up. 

“Maybe you're not called Aziraphale. Not a very human name, is it? I've never met a human called it, and I've met all sorts.” 

Aziraphale looked up at him doubtfully. “What would I be, then?” 

Crowley ran his eyes over him, considering. The corner of his mouth twitched. “You could be called... Alan.” 

The silence that followed was the coldest that had ever passed between them. Crowley almost felt bad. Then he met Aziraphale's eye, and saw the pure, angelic fury in them, and his self-control disintegrated. 

“I am not,” said Aziraphale, over the sound of demonic laughter, “called _Alan_.” 

Crowley wrapped his arms around Aziraphale's neck, kissing him through his laughter. “I know, I know,” he said, not sounding very sympathetic. “I'm sorry, darling, you're not an Alan. I was just teasing. I promise, you don't have to go to a nasty comp.” 

“And I'm not from Leeds,” Aziraphale insisted. “That's a completely different person!” 

“I know, sweetheart, I'm sorry.” 

“You're still laughing.” 

“I'm just... enjoying you. I'm sorry, angel. You don't have to be Alan.” 

Aziraphale sniffed, though he seemed somewhat placated. “I don't think I could even if I wanted to,” he said. “Unless you want me to try a Northern accent.” 

“Don't you dare. Come here.” 

Grudgingly, Aziraphale let himself be pulled into a proper kiss. It went on for rather a long time, and would have gone on longer if he hadn't interrupted it with a sudden thought. 

“Perhaps I went to a religious private school,” he said. “I think little Aziraphale might be alright there.” 

Crowley acknowledged this with a grunt, more interested in the task at hand. Aziraphale seemed not to take the hint. 

“No, I know,” he said, full of dawning regret. “Oh, Crowley, it's obvious.” 

It was too much for even Crowley to ignore. He scowled down at Aziraphale, impatient. “What? What is it?” 

Aziraphale looked at him ruefully. “I'm afraid, my dear, I rather think I was home-schooled.” 

“Oh for- I thought there was something wrong!” 

“With you? No. But little Aziraphale's going to end up quite thoroughly odd.” 

“Well, that sounds about right,” Crowley laughed. 

He rolled off Aziraphale and onto the pillows beside him, scratching his stomach. 

“Yeah,” he added, thinking it over. “Yeah, I can see it. Well-meaning hippy parents with more money than sense.” 

“Oodles of siblings,” Aziraphale put in. 

“Ooh, yeah, I like that.” Excited now, Crowley rolled onto his side with his arm bent beneath his head. Aziraphale mirrored the pose, their noses almost touching. “And I bet they're the kind to sort of... You know _The Man Who Was_ _Thursday_?” 

Aziraphale understood immediately. “Revolt into sanity. Yes, I see. The type who become chartered accountants and convert to Anglicanism because, and largely only because, their parents were New Age shamans who ran a yak farm-cum-crystal healing business.” 

“Exactly. You've always been the odd one out. Too much like your nutty mum. Big softie,” he added, with a kiss to the angel's forehead. 

Aziraphale smiled, warm and pink, his stomach fluttering with the feeling of being known. “Did we fall out? My brothers and sisters and I?” 

Crowley wrinkled his nose. “Nah. Don't think so. You just sort of... fell out of touch after your mother-” 

He broke off, seeing the start of something unacceptable in Aziraphale's eyes. 

“-disappeared,” he amended quickly. Aziraphale did not look convinced. 

“Disappeared? How?” 

“She, uh...” Crowley rummaged in the back of his brain for an explanation. “She stole your great-uncle's experimental space rocket. Crash landed on the moon. She's fine, though, nothing to worry about.” 

“That doesn't seem very plausible.” 

“Yeah? Come up with something yourself, then.” 

Aziraphale thought. After about thirty seconds, Crowley decided to pass the time with some kissing and pulled Aziraphale on top of him to pursue the idea, which unfortunately drove whatever brilliant explanation Aziraphale was going to come up with quite out of his head. Fortunately, as was the case with thoughts in Aziraphale's head, another one came along soon enough that he was perfectly happy to pick up and run with. 

“Do you know, I'm already quite fond of him,” he said, smiling. 

Crowley frowned the frown of someone who does not want to get pulled into this, but sees no clear way not to. He pulled his mouth away as little as possible to ask, “Who?” 

“Little Aziraphale. In my head he's sort of small and fat and bookish. One of those fantastically camp little boys who you just long to give a copy of _The Secret Garden_ and let him know it's alright if he has complicated feelings about Dickon.” 

At that, Crowley looked up at him properly. “Your experiences are not universal.” 

They kissed for a while longer, the mood slipping into something slow and intimate. There was no hurry. They had all the time in the world, now. For a while, they drifted happily in the feel of their bodies against one another, the brush of their lips, the decadent slide of their tongues. Aziraphale trailed his fingers up the long, pale stretch of Crowley's side, marvelling all over again at how delicate the skin was there. 

“How did we meet?” he said softly. 

It took a moment for his words to filter through the static of sensation. “...as humans?” 

Aziraphale huffed a gentle laugh. “Well, I already know how we met as us.” 

Crowley responded with a sharp bite to Aziraphale's bottom lip, making him hiss delightedly. When Crowley moved to kiss his neck, though, Aziraphale went on as if there had been no interruption. 

“They call it a 'meet-cute' in cinema.” The consonants were sharp and precise, making Crowley smile. 

“Do they?” he said, as if this were new information. 

“Mm. When the prospective lovers first encounter each other. Usually there's some kind of comedic misunderstanding or a misapprehension of one another's personalities or- Are you laughing at me?” 

“Only a little. Alright then. A meet-cute. Let's see. Perhaps I came into the shop one day?” 

Aziraphale shook his head. “No,” he said firmly. “I don't like anyone who comes into the shop.” 

“Perhaps you didn't like me, at first. Enemies to lovers.” 

“I think that might be over-egging my emotional investment in my customers,” said Aziraphale. “It's more a sort of aggressive disinterest than anything like as passionate as being enemies.” 

Crowley smiled. He kissed the shell of Aziraphale's ear and said, his voice low and just this side of sultry, “You know not everyone is as... _passionate_ with their enemies as you are.” 

Laughing, Aziraphale started to move down Crowley's body, leaving a trail of kisses in his wake. Crowley lay back against the pillows and sighed, content to let the feeling of Aziraphale's mouth wash over him. He ran his fingers idly though Aziraphale's curls as he thought. 

“Uni,” he said after a little while. “We met at uni. Cambridge.” 

“Oxford,” Aziraphale corrected. 

“You'd look prettier in Cambridge blue.” 

“And you'd look prettier in Oxford blue.” 

“Ooh, maybe you went to one and I went to the other. Our eyes met across the boat race. Like a poncy Romeo and Juliet.” 

“Why are you so determined to make us enemies? Didn't we have enough of that already?” 

Aziraphale's voice was gentle, but there was the barest undercurrent of tension in it. Crowley backed off immediately. 

“Oxford then,” he said. “But can we at least be from different colleges? Bit of friendly rivalry.” 

Aziraphale ran his tongue over the trail of hair that spanned Crowley's naval, south to north. “Can I have Oriel? It's so pretty.” 

“Whatever you like, angel.” 

“What about you?” 

“Don't care.” 

His voice was a little strangled as he said, though this might have been because Aziraphale had left off kissing his stomach and moved to the inside of his thigh. He'd barely made it past Crowley's knee and already a hot flush was spreading over Crowley neck and chest, his fingers moving less coherently in Aziraphale's hair. 

Aziraphale's voice, on the other hand, was perfectly steady. “What were we reading?” 

It took Crowley a moment to gather himself. “Classics,” he said at last, still breathing heavily. “You read Classics.” 

“Not English?” 

Crowley shook his head. “No, you'd hate English. You'd hate English students. They're all- Ah, fuck, angel, that's good...” 

“English students,” Aziraphale prompted, and Crowley could hear the smirk in his voice. 

“Fuck's sake...” he sighed. He tried to concentrate, licked his lips. “They're all, uh. They're all charming young women called Emily and Charlotte. Cheerful and obliging and altogether too nice for you to even get your teeth into hating them.” 

Aziraphale made a noise that said he understood perfectly what Crowley meant. “What are Classics students like, then?” 

“Same as always. Pompous homosexuals with more money than sense. You'll fit right in.” 

“Sometimes I feel like I could have 50p to my name and still have more money than sense,” Aziraphale mused. 

“Just way I like you. Silly old bear.” 

The endearment sent a warm flush of affection spreading through Aziraphale. His fingers traced the outline of Crowley's erection through his boxers, more thoughtful than erotic. Still, Crowley almost didn't hear him when he asked, “What about you? What were you reading?” 

Crowley's smile went sharp at the edges. “Theology,” he said. 

The conversation died away then, as Aziraphale's mouth joined his fingers. He kissed the tip of Crowley's cock, giving a shiver of arousal as his lips brushed the small bloom of wet already seeping through fabric. He traced the shape of it with his tongue, squeezing the shaft while his other hand gripped Crowley's thigh, just tight enough to lend a hint of authority to the situation. 

“I loved you the first moment I saw you.” 

The words came in a rush, blurted out before Crowley could stop them. There was a split second, a fraction of a moment where old habits of shame and awkwardness tried to rear their heads... And then Aziraphale smiled up at him, blowing away the last ragged shadows of doubt. 

“You did,” he agreed. For a long moment, they simply looked at each other, full of easy, breathing love. Then Aziraphale's smile grew ever so slightly apologetic. “It took a little longer for me,” he said. 

Crowley shrugged as best he could, lying down and looking at Aziraphale over his own torso. “It's alright,” he said. “You had a lot on. With your degree,” he added, and Aziraphale got the hint. They had plenty of time to have _that_ sort of conversation. Tonight was something else. 

“Naturally,” said Aziraphale. “Whatever would we do without another Classics degree in the world? You think translations of Catullus grow on trees?” 

He slipped Crowley's boxers down his thighs, knowing that Crowley enjoyed the gentle restriction of them around his legs. He dipped his head, finally taking Crowley into his mouth, swallowing him down without preamble. Crowley groaned, falling back against the pillows. Aziraphale didn't need to look to know he'd have his eyes closed. He looked anyway. It was a beautiful sight. 

After a while, he pulled his mouth away, moving Crowley's cock in his fist instead. 

“I think we fucked at party,” he said, matter of fact. 

“Angel...” Crowley moaned, though it ended with a laugh. Hearing Aziraphale swear had become an almost frequent treat since the end of the world, but he didn't think he'd ever get used to it. 

“We did,” Aziraphale went on, as if he didn't know the effect he was having. “We fucked at a party and then there was some terrible misstep of communication or one of us got scared off-” 

Crowley scoffed at that. “More like both of us,” he said. “Mutual anxiety. Both of us thinking the other's out of their league.” 

“I still think you're out of my league. But I've learnt not to look a gift snake in the mouth.” 

“Hm. Speaking of snakes in mouths...” 

Crowley gave an enticing wiggle. Aziraphale stared at him, but Crowley's grin didn't falter. 

“That was quite good. Admit it.” 

“I'll admit no such thing, you horror.” 

“I'm just saying, you seemed to be-” 

Aziraphale cut him off, kissing him soundly. Soon, Crowley was breathless and desperate, pulling Aziraphale close against him. 

“We argued,” said Aziraphale between kisses. “We argued, and we didn't talk for years, and then one day you came into the shop to get out of the rain and we became friends, then lovers. It was easy. It was so easy. Oh, Crowley, it is _so_ easy to love you.” 

Crowley tried to answer, but the connection between his mouth and his brain – always spotty, even at the best of times – had disintegrated entirely. Action always came easier to him than words, anyway. 

He pressed his mouth against Aziraphale's, pouring into the kiss every scrap of love and gratitude and giddy, swirling joy he felt. It was almost too much, the whirl of emotions mixing with the physical sensation of Aziraphale's mouth, Aziraphale's chest, Aziraphale's hands strong and wanting as they ran over his body. 

One of them tugged off Aziraphale's boxers – it wasn't clear who. Crowley's went the same way, and finally he could wrap his long, skinny legs around Aziraphale's waist, pressing into the wonderful, soft heaviness of him. 

Aziraphale's hand moved down Crowley’s thigh, enjoying the hair that grew thick and dark almost as far as his hips. Then it moved around to his arse, a finger tracing gently over his hole – a question. 

“No miracles,” said Crowley, his voice rough. A look of surprise touched Aziraphale's face, making Crowley's ears burn. “Please?” 

He didn't know how to say it, how to tell Aziraphale what it was he wanted or why. But he didn't need to. Aziraphale's expression moved from surprise to understanding. 

“Alright. No miracles.” He dropped a kiss to Crowley's forehead, already slick with sweat. “Do you have any lubricant?” 

A pause. 

“...one miracle,” Crowley amended. 

Aziraphale snorted. With a thought, he obliged, fingers growing wet. 

It had been a long time since Aziraphale had had sex without miracles. As a rule, he preferred not to use his magic on another's body without their consent, even outside a context as vulnerable as sex. But the same did not go for his own body, and even with his human partners he’d been prone to small adjustments to his personal reality in the name of speeding things along (or, on occasion, slowing them down). 

It was a pleasure, he realised, to take time. To tarry and linger, to indulge in the slow push and pull of self against self. Time slipped away from them, seconds and minutes replaced by a ragged procession of breaths, the slide of sweat-damp skin, the incredible heat building between their bodies. 

By the time Crowley was ready to take him, it was all Aziraphale could do to think through the low, static hum in the air between them. He felt the dull ache of his desire though his whole body, diffuse and ill-defined. He pulled his fingers free, making Crowley gasp and twist beneath him. 

“It's alright, darling,” he murmured, faintly amazed he still knew how to speak. “I'm here. I've got you.” 

Crowley's eyes fluttered open for the first time in what felt like hours. His eyes were dull gold in the low light, and Aziraphale was struck all over again by how beautiful they were, and strange. Crowley swallowed, tried to speak. 

“Do... Do you think,” he managed, on his second attempt. “Do you think you can lift me?” 

The question confused Aziraphale at first. He'd lifted Crowley up plenty of times, much to Crowley's wriggling, embarrassed delight. Then Crowley's meaning hit. No miracles. None of the magic that imbued this corporation. 

Aziraphale licked his lips. “I... I think so? We can try, if you want to?” 

Crowley nodded. “Yes,” he said, quickly. “Please.” 

A kiss. Another. Then Aziraphale smiled. “You'll have to let me up, first.” 

Reluctantly, Crowley let his legs fall to the mattress. Aziraphale stood, legs slightly shaky at first. Crowley took the hand he offered and let himself be pulled to standing, resting loose-limbed and dozy against Aziraphale's shoulder as he scanned the room. 

“Here?” said Aziraphale, gesturing at an empty stretch of wall. 

Crowley nodded, and if Aziraphale didn't know better he'd think he was disinterested. Luckily, he knew him very, very well. Crowley was drifting in the soft, malleable space he sometimes slipped into during sex. It was cousin to the floating, almost trance-like state that rough sex put him into – a letting-go of self borne of absolute trust in Aziraphale to give him what he needed. 

Still, there was enough spark left in him to shoot a look over his shoulder at Aziraphale as he walked to the space they'd chosen. He let an arrogant swing come into his hips as he walked, knowing Aziraphale was watching and enjoying the attention. 

When he got to the wall, he leant against it, one leg bent, every gesture a textbook display of rock and roll swagger. His eyes shone, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. 

“Come on then,” he said. 

Aziraphale joined him, rolling his eyes at the display and at the same time finding it completely irresistible. 

“Won't it be cold?” he said, concern creasing his forehead. 

Crowley shook his head. “I like it. 'sides - you can keep me warm...” 

He reached for him, letting himself be pressed against the cool, hard concrete of the wall. The contrast to Aziraphale, all hot give and swell, couldn't have been starker. They kissed, until eventually Aziraphale's hands moved to grip Crowley's narrow waist. 

“You'll... You'll have to jump a bit, I think,” he said, trying to stay sensible. 

Crowley grinned at him. “Bouncy,” he said, inanely. 

It took a while for them to come back from that. When their giggles finally died away, Aziraphale gave Crowley a last kiss for good measure and took hold of his waist once more. 

“Ready?” 

Crowley nodded. A moment to gather themselves. Then, in a rush of movement, Aziraphale lifted Crowley up, long arms and legs wrapping around him, instinctively seeking support. 

“Oh... Oh, _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale gasped. 

Crowley was heavy in his arms but his muscles took the strain more easily than he'd expected. The feeling was incredible, a sense of strength and power he hadn't been prepared for. He pressed Crowley against the wall, adjusting his grip. 

“You're perfect,” he managed to say. “You're perfect, you're so perfect, you...” 

Crowley was quite as affected. He kissed him, hard and desperate, his fingers digging into the flesh of Aziraphale's shoulders. Somehow, Aziraphale managed to scrabble enough brain power together to get them into position. A second's pause, a frantic nod from Crowley, and then the last of Aziraphale's conscious thought was consumed by heat and pressure. 

Their bodies moved by instinct, falling into a mindless rhythm as they fucked. Before long, Crowley was scrambling for purchase, hands moving over Aziraphale's back and shoulders, into his hair. 

“A-Aziraphale,” he tried to say. “Aziraphale, I'm going to-” 

He cut off with a cry as his orgasm blew through him in shuddering waves. Aziraphale bit down on Crowley's shoulder, groaning at the increase in pressure, his hips grinding to stillness. Crowley’s face was hot against his, Aziraphale couldn’t tell if it was Crowley’s heartbeat or his own thundering against his ribs. 

“Come for me, Aziraphale,” Crowley panted. “Please, darling, please, I want to feel it...” 

He rolled his hips, the movement not quite human. Once, twice - and Aziraphale came, burying his face in Crowley's neck, his fingers digging hard into the spare flesh of his arse. 

For a moment, they hung there, timeless, nothing real beyond the press of their bodies. Then, by degrees, awareness returned. Crowley's leg twitched, an aborted attempt to climb down. 

Aziraphale pulled himself free and stepped away from the wall, intending to let Crowley down as gently as possible. But his muscles were shaky, still recovering from the shock of his orgasm, and unprepared to take Crowley's full weight. Something gave – a knee, perhaps, buckling under the sudden strain – and abruptly the floor came up to meet them, crashing them into an ungainly tangle of arms, legs, and a disconcerting amount of partly-dried come. 

A beat. Then, Crowley burst out laughing. 

“You dropped me! I can't believe you dropped me!” 

“I didn't drop you!” Aziraphale protested. He looked about them as if not quite sure how they'd got there. “I... I think I dropped myself.” 

Crowley was gone, head pressed against Aziraphale's, shoulders shaking with laughter. 

“Sorry,” said Aziraphale mildly. Crowley waved the apology away. 

“Don't worry about it,” he said, still laughing. Eventually his laughter subsided. Their eyes found one another's. “It's freezing down here,” Crowley said, conversationally. 

“Mm. My bum's gone numb. Though it might just be that I bumped it on the way down,” Aziraphale admitted. He looked over at the bed, Crowley following the direction of his gaze. A doubtful expression came over him. “Didn't look that far on the way here,” he said thoughtfully. 

“No,” Crowley agreed. “We'd have to walk, oh, six or seven paces at least. Unless you want to scoot there on your poor numb bum.” 

“Still have to stand up at the end,” Aziraphale pointed out. “Really, you should get some rugs in here.” 

“Don't change the sub-” 

There was a click, a flutter of something that almost sounded like feathers, and suddenly Crowley found himself bundled up in bed under the duvet, clean and clad in a fresh pair of boxers with a happily pyjama'd angel wrapped around him. 

“Did- Did you _f_ _ly_ us here?” Crowley spluttered. 

“Yes.” 

Crowley waited for more, but no more was forthcoming. He settled down against the pillows. “Well. I suppose we're back on the miracles, then.” 

Aziraphale opened one eye. “I didn't say that. It was a good idea, doing without. I liked it,” he added, more honestly. 

Crowley snuggled closer. “Me too,” he said. 

“As a treat. And gosh,” he said, brightening up, “who'd have thought I'd actually have some muscles under all this?” 

“Me,” said Crowley vehemently. “I've thought it, often.” 

“Mm. You do like being chucked about a bit, don't you. Thank goodness you're just a slip of a thing.” 

“We could try it the other way around,” Crowley offered. “Not miracle free,” he added hastily when Aziraphale flicked a glance at his admittedly noodley upper arms. “But I'd like it, I think. Holding you like that.” 

Aziraphale made a happy noise. He kissed Crowley on the cheek, nuzzling his head into the pillow. “That sounds nice. We'll add it to the list.” 

His voice was thick with sleep. Crowley let the topic rest. He lay for a while, looking at Aziraphale, feeling a little like a love-sick puppy and rather more like someone who has somehow won five successive lotteries and been crowned king of the universe to boot. 

“I love you,” he said aloud, not really expecting an answer. He didn't get one. Aziraphale just gave a sort of snuffle, utterly at peace. It didn't take long for Crowley to drift off too, his angel soft and safe beside him. 

In the early hours of the morning, the first trails of daylight crept into the bedroom. Aziraphale woke slowly. Crowley was sprawled on his front, an arm and one leg flung out over Aziraphale, face smushed into the pillow. 

Aziraphale lay there watching the light changing shape as it crept slowly across the ceiling, happy for the moment to simply be still and think quiet, early morning thoughts. But it wasn't long before his thoughts became more coherent, and started mumbling tempting things that rhymed with 'schmup of schmee'. He tried to ignore them, but he'd never been very good at resisting temptation. 

Crowley grumbled in his sleep when Aziraphale wriggled himself free. He kissed the top of his ridiculous red head. “Back in a minute,” he said, and whether Crowley heard him or not, he relaxed back into the pillows with a sigh. 

Aziraphale said good morning to the plants in the hallway as he padded past them, sparing a moment to admire their verdant growth. Then he went through the living room and into the kitchen. Miracles were all well and good, but they had a time and a place and the first cup of tea of the day was neither. 

He filled Crowley's sleek black kettle and set it to boil, bustling about finding the strainer. Crowley kept his tea and coffee in matching jars on the impeccable counter, and somehow it didn’t matter which he reached for first, Aziraphale always opened the coffee one first. He spooned leaves into the strainer and fished his mug out of the cupboard. 

It still made him smile to think of having his own mug in Crowley's home. It was an old one, chipped white enamel with a navy blue lip and string wrapped round the handle to protect his fingers from the heat. He hadn't bought it, nor had Crowley given it to him. It had never so much as seen the inside of the bookshop. But Crowley had been giving him his tea in it whenever he visited since the Forties. One day he'd ask why. Or not. He felt he already knew, really. 

While the tea brewed, he wandered out into the living room with vague tidying intentions. But of course, there was nothing to tidy. The blankets were folded, the cushions arranged in an artful jumble. All that remained of the night before was the manila folder, magicked up out of the ether for no reason but to make him feel better. 

He opened it and found, as promised, a stack of paperwork confirming the very real and official existence of one Aziraphale Fell. To his surprise, there was another set of documents in there as well, bearing the name of Anthony J. Crowley. He opened the passports, smiling at the photos Crowley had chosen. He smiled too when he saw that Crowley had made himself slightly younger than Aziraphale. 

There were birth certificates as well as passports, a pair of National Insurance cards, and a handful of bank statements confirming their addresses at the bookshop and the flat respectively. And then, at the back, something that made his fingers hesitate. 

It was a pale green piece of paper, long and narrow, bearing a host of official stamps and explanations and disclaimers. At the centre was a form, filled in neatly with printed letters. Two names. Two birthdates. Two 'occupation of father's, the answers to which made Aziraphale snort with laughter even as his eyes brimmed with tears. Four signatures at the bottom, though whose names were scrawled in the place of witnesses, Aziraphale couldn't quite make out. And above it all, in a bold, no-nonsense serif font: 'Certified copy of an entry of marriage.' 

Eventually, he tucked the certificate away with the rest and set the folder back down on the arm of the sofa. Crowley could put it in the safe when he got up. He picked a book out from the selection he had already stashed on Crowley's shelves and took it and his tea down the corridor to the bedroom. 

Crowley barely moved when he climbed back under the covers. His book and tea sat waiting on the bedside table, but instead of reaching for them, he wriggled down, pulling the covers up to his shoulders. 

“Crowley?” he said quietly. 

Crowley grunted. Slowly, something in the deep, sleepy parts of his brain woke up enough to realise there were cuddles in the offing. He moved closer, an uncoordinated shuffling that nonetheless ended with him exactly where he wanted to be – curled up against Aziraphale, heavy arms around him, holding him close. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said again. “Wake up a bit, darling.” 

“Mff.” 

“Are you there? Commune with us, o spirit.” One bleary yellow eye opened just enough to glare up at him. “Sorry, my love. You can go back to sleep soon. I just wanted to say. I don't think I'd call you my boyfriend if we were, you know. People.” 

Crowley grunted again, though whether in displeasure or dismissal, Aziraphale couldn't tell. To Aziraphale's surprise, he actually managed to speak. 

“'m people,” he mumbled. “Demons're people.” 

“Of course demons are people, dear. I just meant, you know. Human people. People who do real people things.” 

“Like sleep.” 

“You can go back to sleep in a minute,” Aziraphale said again. “This is important. Not very important but a little bit.” 

He stroked his hand over the back of Crowley's head, breathing in the warm, beddish smell of him. 

“I wouldn't call you my boyfriend,” he repeated. “I was being silly. I’d call you my husband, of course.” 

There was a long, quiet pause. Aziraphale was just starting to think Crowley had fallen back to sleep when he moved, burying his face in Aziraphale's chest and clinging close. His breathing had gone slightly snuffly. Aziraphale stroked his hair and waited. 

Eventually, muffled by a faceful of pyjama top but absolutely not prepared to look Aziraphale in the eye for this, he said, “You can. If you like.” 

Aziraphale smiled. “Would you like me to?” 

Crowley somehow managed to bury his face even more than he already had. He huffed, and the ear Aziraphale could see grew redder than ever. “Yes,” he said at last. “If you do.” 

“I do.” 

“Stop that.” 

“Sorry. I want to, I mean.” Aziraphale's smile grew broader. “My husband,” he breathed. 

“Not if you're going to bang on about it,” said Crowley. His voice cracked as he said it though, and he finished with a distinctly wet sniff. 

“I won't, I promise. I'll be very discreet. You can go back to sleep now. I just wanted to let you know.” 

Crowley gave one final grunt and fell resolutely silent. Aziraphale didn't know how long it would take him to fall back to sleep. It didn't matter. He'd hold him for as long as it took. He could always miracle the tea hot again, after all. 

**Author's Note:**

> 1 On the night before the body swap, Aziraphale had looked briefly uncomfortable sitting on Crowley's sofa. Appalled, Crowley had got back to the flat after all the excitement was over and immediately set about putting the fear of himself into the leather behemoth, letting it know in no uncertain terms that if it didn't get its act together on the issue of angelic comfort, there would be consequences. It was now, to its own relief as much as Aziraphale's, quite impossibly cosy and sported a number of stylish but snuggly blankets and enough cushions to facilitate every conceivable position one might sit in and still be able to hold a book. Or, as it happened, a stylish but snuggly demon.
> 
> 2 Having never had a member so much as questioned by the police, let alone arrested, the Anatidae remain the most successful crime family in history.


End file.
